Chapter 22

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I n January, the festive season concluded, Darcy left Pemberley and travelled to London on business, planning to return north for the rest of the winter. He had been in town for several days, meeting with solicitors and business agents. As was his custom since the previous year, he had ordered the knocker left off the door, which enabled him to have more control over his time. Determined to avoid any persons connected with matchmaking parents or ambitious ladies, he dined with his uncle, aunt, and cousins, made quiet visits to his club and to Angelo's, and sat unnoticed in the shadowy rear of his box at the theatre for a few performances.

He informed Lady Matlock that if she made any attempts to introduce him to young ladies, he would immediately decamp to Pemberley. While he did not wish to share his personal thoughts with anyone, he had decided to wait until after his sister married to seek a bride. Although Lady Matlock was not well-pleased, Georgiana, after much discussion with her companion and her guardians, decided that she would make her debut in Derbyshire, surrounded by neighbours and family friends, when she turned eighteen and no earlier. She had spent the last two years growing in confidence and poise but felt that before she took the plunge, she should have definite ideas of what she required in any prospective husband. She most definitely did not want to be paraded around London "like a prize heifer angling for the highest bid" .

His current visit had been pleasant, and Darcy was pleased to be reminded that there were things he enjoyed about the great city. In another week or so, after concluding his business and making quiet visits to his favourite shops, he would happily return to Pemberley to settle in for the winter.

He had not anticipated Lady Catherine. A quiet tap on the door of his private sitting room warned him. "Enter," he called.

His butler stepped in and murmured, "Lady Catherine de Bourgh is here to see you, sir. She seems to know that you are indeed in residence. I could not put her off."

Lady Catherine appeared behind him, her stentorian voice making the butler jump. "There will be no ‘putting me off' as you say, Bridges. Now leave us. I have business with my nephew that is of a private nature."

At a nod from his master, Bridges left the room and quietly pulled the door closed behind him.

Darcy had seen little of his aunt in recent years, and nothing of his cousin Anne. Any contact they had had was through correspondence. Lady Catherine's letters had over the last year become more heated and strident, more insistent that he do his duty and marry Anne.

He rose slowly, suppressing his annoyance at his aunt's rudeness, more extreme than he had ever witnessed before. "Lady Catherine?—"

"You can be at no loss to understand the reason for my journey hither," she interrupted.

"I am at a loss to understand why you have invaded my privacy. The knocker is off my door, and I am accepting no visitors. I cannot account for the honour of seeing you here."

"I am here to see that you fulfil your mother's wishes and do your duty. You have been disregarding me, avoiding me with nonsensical excuses like so-called emergencies on your estate and attending the nuptials of tradesmen. I am forced to come to you to remedy this negligence myself. How dare you shirk your responsibilities! You pay no heed to what you owe your family. This has gone on far too long. Any further delays will not be endured. You are thirty years old. Anne is nine-and-twenty. You must fulfil your destiny and your obligation to my daughter."

"Aunt, as I have stated on several occasions, my father said this business of any so-called engagement between me and Anne is a fantas?—"

"Hear me in silence!" Lady Catherine shouted, thumping her walking stick on the floor.

Darcy hardened his jaw. "I will not be intimidated by any tantrums of yours. If you are sensible of your own good, you will cease your attempts to interfere in my affairs."

"If I am sensible?" Lady Catherine repeated, her face purpling. "Very well. I shall know how to act, though I hoped I would not need to," she snarled. She opened her reticule, pulling from it a sheaf of papers, which she brandished like a weapon.

Darcy at once felt a sense of foreboding. What could they possibly be? Did Lady Catherine have some letter from his mother demanding that he marry Anne?

When his aunt's hand stilled, he glimpsed the handwriting on the papers. He knew that hand. Georgiana! He felt his body grow cold, remembering the letters; the missing love letters that she had written to Wickham. It had been months since he had thought of them. Wickham had known of his aunt's delusional attempts to force his marriage to Anne; he had mocked Darcy about it mercilessly when they were young. He knew that Lady Catherine would pay well for them. Everything fell together in his mind. Wickham had encouraged young, na?ve Georgiana to write love letters—his insurance for when he needed money. Almost two years after Wickham's death, the villain's plans had come to fruition.

Lady Catherine stared at him, a gleam of malicious triumph in her eyes. Her chin rose, and she stalked slowly towards him. "You know what I have in my possession, do you not? I can read you, Darcy. You cannot fool me."

She started walking around him, staring at him with hard eyes, like a cat toying with a mouse. He would not meet her gaze and affected a calm that he did not possess. "You will marry Anne, or I will show these letters to the newspapers. Georgiana will be ruined."

"You would not dare injure your niece in such a way!"

"I have by no means finished," she roared. "I will unmask you as an unfit guardian and take you to court to gain guardianship over her. Your father should have given her over to me when she was a child. You failed her, Darcy."

Darcy grasped at a straw. "You cannot prove that Georgiana wrote the letters."

Lady Catherine barked a laugh and brandished the letters before him. "Fool! I have letters Georgiana wrote to Anne. The hand is identical. No, Darcy, you cannot win! I will not hesitate to ruin you both unless you marry Anne!"

Darcy seized the letters from Lady Catherine's hand while she looked down her nose at him. He quickly ran his eyes over them and counted eight letters but did not have time to toss them in the fire before they were snatched from his grip.

"Do not think of burning them, Darcy. There are more in my safe. I have the contracts prepared. You will sign them as they are written. There will be no negotiation. And ," she continued, holding the letters high, her eyes dark with vindictiveness, "Anne will have the ruby ring."

His mother's ring, given to her by his father on the day of their marriage. His parents had left it to Georgiana. His mind raced. Not since his mother's death had he felt so utterly powerless. He had been a child then; now he was a man but just as helpless. In order to have her way, Lady Catherine was ready and willing to destroy his sister, as well as the Darcy reputation he had worked so diligently to uphold. She would take Georgiana away from him and force her to come out in London and live a life she abhorred. She would steal a beloved family heirloom that she had always coveted.

"You would ruin your sister's child?"

Lady Catherine shrugged. "She ruined herself. Only you can save her."

There was no choice but to surrender.

The following morning, Bridges appeared at the study door. Darcy looked up, exhausted from a sleepless night.

"Miss Bingley is here, sir. Are you in?"

Alone? She had come to see him alone, and before visiting hours? After the previous day's interview with Lady Catherine, this was too much provocation. "I am not…" Darcy began, but it was too late. Astonishingly, Caroline Bingley appeared behind the butler and stepped around him.

"He will see me, Bridges."

This was beyond the bounds of anything he had ever seen, but there was more to come. Red-faced and wrathful, she walked to the desk and threw down a newspaper. "You told Charles that you would never marry Anne de Bourgh! How could you? She can never give you an heir!"

At that moment, two things became apparent. One was that Lady Catherine had been so certain of her victory over him that she had sent notices to the newspapers before they had even met. The other was that Charles Bingley was never to be trusted with personal information again. Darcy was already bitter at Georgiana's foolishness and Wickham's deceit, fuming at his aunt's double dealing and extortion, and furious at his own powerlessness. Now he was fully enraged.

He rose to his full height and spoke quietly and coldly, the very air seeming to turn to frost around his words. "Did your brother also tell you how many times I informed him that I would never consider offering for you ?"

"You have singled me out with conspicuous attention on many occasions! I have turned down other proposals in expectation of your offer!" she cried.

"That is ridiculous, madam. I have taken extreme care not to single you out."

"I am everything you could ever want in a wife!" Miss Bingley wailed. "I have beauty, accomplishments, a superior education, exquisite taste, breeding?—"

Darcy lost all control of his temper and cut in savagely, "Ah, yes, your great-grandfather the blacksmith. How could I forget?" He called his butler. "Bridges, have Miss Bingley seen to her carriage. And inform the servants that she is never to be admitted to Darcy House, or to any of my properties, in future."

It was Miss Bingley's turn to be enraged. She advanced upon him. "Let me assure you that I have no intention of calling on either you or your tiresome mute of a sister ever again."

Bridges stepped forwards to escort her from the premises. Miss Bingley went to turn but stopped suddenly, seeming to recall something. Her eyes glittered with malice. "Perhaps, sir, you might invite the Bennet sisters if you wish for female company." She clasped her hands to her chest in feigned dismay. "Oh, but how could I have forgotten? You cannot because they are gone ," she hissed. "I have recently had some interesting news from Hertfordshire! The youngest sister ran off with your friend Wickham and was killed almost two years ago. The entire family was ruined. Disgraced! Shunned by every person of their acquaintance! Their uncle in Cheapside, the tradesman, had to marry them off. Hasty, patched-up marriages to labourers!" Her voice rose in pitch and volume. "The eldest, so renowned for her beauty, married a carpenter. The plain one married a music master. I wish him luck in teaching her to sing! The vapid one married a clerk, and…"

Here, she paused, blotchy-faced, breathing hard, and her tone turned derisive. "Miss Elizabeth Bennet of the fine eyes. She was forced to marry a sailor! Perhaps she now abides in a boarding house by the docks. How coarse and vulgar she must have become! How lined her complexion, how chapped her hands! How graceful she must be as she hangs the sheets out to dry. Or perhaps she takes in the dirty laundry of others for a few extra farthings."

It took every fibre of Darcy's self-control not to strike her. "Get. Her. Out." He bit the words off to the waiting footmen.

Miss Bingley was hustled away. Darcy closed the door behind them and paced rapidly back and forth from one end of the room to the other, clenching and unclenching his fists, breathing deeply in an attempt to gain control of himself. He stopped at the window but saw nothing, so staggered was he. Could it be? Was Miss Bingley speaking the truth? When had it happened? How had he not known? You did not know because you abandoned her.

He collapsed into a chair. His anger had gone, replaced by a wave of nausea and sudden exhaustion. He was empty, bereft, hollowed out. He put his head in his hands. Had he, in his prideful zeal to protect his family name, laid the groundwork to destroy Elizabeth's family? He could have warned the Bennets and the other families in Meryton about Wickham, but he had not. He had instead fled the neighbourhood, taking Bingley with him, who might have offered some protection to the Bennet family if he had married Jane Bennet. But he had not. Darcy had ruined that as well, and now marriage to Anne—cross, peevish, lumpish Anne—would be his eternal penance.